


perfect stranger

by owlvsdove



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:10:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/pseuds/owlvsdove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz doesn’t question why Ward is taking him to a hotel, or why he has a key card to a room on the sixth floor, or why there is nobody there when they enter. Fitz tends to dream during the day. </p><p>(In which Fitz meets a lovely young prostitute.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	perfect stranger

 

 

Fitz doesn’t question why Ward is taking him to a hotel, or why he has a key card to a room on the sixth floor, or why there is nobody there when they enter. Fitz tends to dream during the day.

Ward has been stammering over his words during the short trip, talking about how they’re best friends, and how they are close to brothers, and how he has a duty to help him out. Fitz has heard these words from Ward before, so he tunes him out and let the tone of brotherly love envelop him pleasantly as he thinks of other things.

 “Are you good, man?” Ward asks suddenly. “I’m leaving.”

It isn’t until then that Fitz realizes he doesn’t know what’s happening.

“Huh?”

“The girl should be here any minute; I gotta get out of here. There are condoms on the dresser.”

“Wait, _what_ is happening?”

“Keep up, Monkey Boy,” Ward sighs. “The girl is going to be here soon. It’s all taken care of as my gift to you. Do _not_ forget to use a condom.”

Fitz stares at him blankly for a moment, mulling this over.

“You hired me a prostitute?”

“Yes.”

“Because my virginity offends you.”

“Ye— _no_. Because you’ve been stressed out about the whole thing, and I figured it would be good for you to just get it out of the way with a professional.” Ward shrugs. “It’s what my big brother did for me.”

“Your brother is a psychopath,” Fitz mutters, and he immediately regrets it.

“That’s true,” Ward says quietly. “But this might do you some good.”

Fitz stays silent.

“I’m going to leave now, buddy. Good luck.”

“Do you want me to call you after?” Fitz calls after him as he opens the door.

“Please don’t,” he responds over his shoulder, and then Fitz is alone again.

He is sat awkwardly on the bed. The spread is chintzy and strange, the room is dimly-lit. Fitz braces his hands on his knees and realizes he is smearing charcoal ghosts onto his trousers. He was drawing before Ward dragged him away. He lets out a curse and goes to the bathroom to scrub his hands clean.

Of course, at that moment, there is a knock at the door. He panics as he dries his hands quickly and runs to the door. He thrusts the door open but his apologies melt on his lips.

“Hi,” the girl says. She is objectively gorgeous. Fitz tries not to stare but her eyes are vices on his attention.

“Sorry,” he blurts finally. “I was washing my hands. Not for a weird reason. There was charcoal on them. Because I was drawing before I came here. I draw. Hi.”

“Hi,” she says again, for his benefit, and her smile is wide and kind and equally as distracting as her eyes.

“Sorry,” he says again, and steps aside so she can come inside.

“What’s your name?” She asks, and he realizes she’s English. It’s comforting, somehow.

“Fitz.”

“Nice to meet you, Fitz,” she murmurs. “I’m Skye.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Skye? That’s not really your name.”

She stops in the middle of taking off her coat, face confused. “Well, no, but—”

“Has no one ever questioned it before?”

She looks like the wind’s been blown out of her, and Fitz feels ashamed. “No, not really. I think it’s supposed to be unspoken? It’s not my real name, but it doesn’t matter to anyone. I’m not a real girl, either.”

He thinks that over, but her face sinks into shock for a brief moment.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” she says as she turns away to lay her coat over an armchair.

“That’s okay.”

“So you draw?” She says, trying to redirect the conversation.

“Yeah.”

“Are you any good?” She’s trying to put him at ease.

“Um,” he squirms. “I’m alright. I’m not good at drawing things that are real.”

“You’re a dreamy one, then? Head in the clouds?”

“Unfortunately for everyone around me, yeah, sort of.”

She smiles at that. He doesn’t know why he’s being so chatty. Probably because he never has to see this girl again. Probably because he’s half-sure this isn’t happening anyway.

She moves to sit down at the foot of the bed. He just watches absently, before realizing she’s waiting for him, eyebrow cocked, to join her. He doesn’t move, though.

“This wasn’t my idea,” he starts. “My friend set this up. Because I’ve never…”

“You’ve never?” She asks, and there is no accusation, no silent search for whatever’s wrong with him, which is not something he’s used to. He’s breathless as he shakes his head in confirmation.

“Well, your friend is generous. We have all night,” she says. “What would you like to do first?”

He looks down, rubs his neck roughly. “I’m not sure I want to do this at all,” he murmurs. Then he looks up at her, apologetic. “Not that I don’t want to have sex. Or have sex with you. I just…”

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” she responds. He considers her. She seems so open and kind and unprecedented.

He crosses the room suddenly and flops down on the bed in the pile of pillows. He grabs the big phone set as she twists around to watch him, lips quirked, curious and amused.

“Do you want to order room service? Ward’s a bit of an idiot; I’m sure he left his card with them.”

Something on her face changes and he can’t quite parse what it is, a guilty mix of tenderness, doubt, and confusion. “Are you sure?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says easily, shrugging.

She broke into a full smile again. “Okay,” she says softly.

They end up ordering a pizza, chocolate chip pancakes, chips, earl grey tea, and a bottle of champagne. Fitz revels in the strangeness of it.

“So,” he says when he hangs up the phone. “Can I ask what you’re real name is?”

She smiles down at the bedspread. “Jemma,” she says shyly.

“Why did you pick Skye?”

“It’s my best friend’s name. She thought this whole… _idea_ was funny, and insisted that I was named after her.” She’s sitting against the pillows now next to him, heels kicked off and legs tucked under her.

“So you actually know a person named Skye?”

“What did you say your friend’s name was? _Ward_?” she teases back.

“Well yeah, but that’s his last name. Fitz is my last name,” he adds after a pause.

“Oh really? What’s your first name then?” She says, with a face singing _turnabout’s fair play_.

“Leo. Leopold. But really Leo. But really Fitz. Nobody calls me Leo except for my mum,” he rambles.

“Do you know what Leopold means?” she asks suddenly, excitedly.

He shakes his head.

“ _Brave as a lion_ ,” she says.

He hums. “And what does Jemma mean?”

“Gem. Jewel,” she says dryly.

“Right. Yes. That was obvious.”

She smiles at him, and it distracts him for a while, so she watches him watch her.

“So. If you don’t draw real things, what do you draw?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that question. “Designs for things that don’t exist. People that I’ve never met. Dreams I’ve had.”

“Do you go to school for it?”

“No, I go to school for chemical engineering.”

“Really?” She says excitedly. “I’m studying biochem!”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, I love it, actually.”

“I _hate_ biology,” he says automatically, and she snorts good-naturedly.

“Why?”

“What’s so great about living things?” He grins as she laughs loudly. “It’s all mucky, squishy bits.”

“Well, what’s so great about engineering?” She jeers.

“There are at least 100 percent more robots.” She laughs again. “I’m thinking of switching to mechanical engineering, anyway. To focus solely on the robots.”

“You can’t even handle a little chemistry?” She asks, and he feels a wave of warmth wash over him; everything goes hyper-real in his head rush. If he had anything charming to say, he’d say it. But he doesn’t.

“I suppose I’ll leave that to you,” he says instead. He’s still not used to her smile.

There’s a knock at the door. Fitz hops up and bounds over to the door to fling it open. The waiter looks weary, like he’s expected two little kids, but he says nothing.

Jemma gets up to help Fitz lay all the food out on the bed. She grabs the paper cups from the dinky coffee maker for their champagne. He pops the cork toward the ceiling; she shrieks and laughs as it ricochets.

“Cheers,” he says, and she repeats him, locking eyes as they each take a sip.

“Can I be honest?” she asks, tearing off a piece of pancake delicately.

“Yeah?”

“This is not how I expected this night to go.” But she’s smiling, so it doesn’t feel like a dig.

“No, I bet not. I didn’t really know this was going to happen either.”

“Your friend surprised you?”

“Yeah, sort of.” He takes another gulp of champagne.

“Well, definitely a night to remember,” she says.

“Yeah, I don’t imagine many people refuse you—” he looks into her eyes at the moment and almost forgets to finish the sentence “—and then feed you a weird assortment of foods.”

She laughs again. She has an interesting laugh – it’s a big, round sound that you wouldn’t expect out of her throat. But it’s still lovely.

“I don’t think this is standard whore business, no,” she says, cheeky grin in place. And he laughs.

“You don’t think? Or are you not very practiced?” He teases.

She smiles, her head rolls back and she looks to the ceiling, dazed. “Do you want to know a secret?”

“Am I your first client?” He jokes.

“No,” she breathes, pauses. “You’re my second.”

His smile fades. He thinks about that as she continues looking to the ceiling for guidance. “Is that true?”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re _not_ very practiced, then,” he says, keeping it light.

Her mouth quirks wryly. “Not really.”

“When did you get started?” He asks.

“A few weeks ago.” He wants to ask a million more questions, but he bites his tongue, gives her time to fill the silence if she chooses to.

She does. “It wasn’t so bad, really. Just like a normal job, I suppose.”

“Why did you decide to start working?” He asks, picking up a slice of pizza.

“My dad lost his job. My parents can’t really afford to help me anymore. I mean they’ll never admit that, but I know.” She sinks back into the pillows, but she’s still confessing to somebody else’s floor. “And I have scholarships to go to school, but this will help make up the difference, I think.”

“I know what you mean, though,” he says. “It’s just my mum and me now. If I didn’t have scholarships I would probably still be in Scotland.”

“I just feel too guilty not to do anything to help,” she says quietly. He nods.

“Sorry,” she says suddenly, sniffling, and he realizes her eyes have welled up.

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs.

“I’m redefining the word _unprofessional_ tonight,” she says as she runs a fingertip along her bottom lashes primly. He can tell it’s meant to be a joke.

“I don’t mind,” he says and looks to the bed spread.

The silence is buzzing, humming with some strange overflow. He coughs, trying to regain himself. “So do you think you’ll stick with it?”

“Dunno. It hasn’t been too traumatizing yet.” She takes a long sip of champagne. “I don’t really think I’m cut out for it, though.”

“No?”

“I don’t want it to destroy anything in me. I feel like it might not seem like much now, but one day I’ll wake up without any romantic feeling at all.”

He thinks for a moment. “Maybe. Maybe that’s true. But I don’t think there’s anything stopping you from getting it back. If you think it’s important enough. Or you might not lose anything at all.”

“Or I might lose everything.”

“Right. Really, what I’m trying to say is I have no idea.”

She laughs. “But neither do I!” She cries good-naturedly.

“Well, now you’re not alone,” he says, chuckling.

She sits up on the bed, readjusting her position, and somehow, in a very sneaky girl magic way, her hand ends up loosely open halfway between them. His eyes widen. She’s not looking at him, but she’s not moving. Have they traveled back in time? Are they thirteen now? He wants to poke fun but he’s seized by nervousness, so he’s no better.

He reaches out and weaves his fingers between hers, watching her face carefully as it blooms.

She seems to move fluidly, all at once, and suddenly she’s emptied the space between them. They are thigh to thigh, knee to knee. Her free hand moves up to turn his chin to her. He barely has a chance to look into her eyes before her lips are on his, searing and searching and formidable.

Thoughts spring to his mind as he holds her, as he responds, like _it’s never been this easy to talk to someone before_ and _I want to know every errant thought inside your head_. He doesn’t want to ruin this. He doesn’t want to think she’s not ruinable. He can’t forget that he has the capability to devastate. 

Her hand moves down to his throat, thumb rubbing sweet circles on his skin. His free hand is in her hair, soft and precious like spun silk.

He pulls back, but not very far; his forehead presses to hers as he tries to breathe.

“I like you,” he says in a daze, and it sounds strange for a moment until he realizes she’s said the same thing.

He can feel her smiling, feel her forehead scrunch as her devastating mouth stretches to prop her cheeks up. He runs his thumb over the swell and dips his lips back in.

Fitz has never done this. Yes, he’s watched a lot of porn, seen plenty of movies, read enough fanfiction. But he now knows he couldn’t have predicted how it would feel to press Jemma back into the pillows, to feel her grip his arms with need, to have her steal his breath as she breaks their lips apart to move to his neck, biting and then tonguing, vicious and then forgiving. He is completely lost to her; her sweet scent is hugging him tightly and it raises his temperature. It takes a lot of his concentration not to collapse onto her, and she seems to sense this, rolling them over efficiently. Her mouth connects with his again and she guides his upper body closer to hers so she can sit up and straddle him.

Then he hears the thud. She turns to see what happened; her twisting body reveals the chips that litter the floor like rose petals. Their fervent activity had knocked over some of their dinner. He laughs. He wants to go back to kissing her but she gets up hurriedly. He follows suit, standing up awkwardly as she crouches to the floor.

Fistful of soggy chips, she stands to find the trash can and notices a new friend pitching protest in his pants. She spares a smile to it and him and saunters away. He blushes and gets to work.

“I always did know how to make a mess of things,” she says anxiously, crouching back down again.

“’S not a mess,” he says, “You’re a worrier.” He doesn’t realize until the words left his mouth that he doesn’t really know if that’s true. It only feels like they’ve known each other a long time.

She smiles towards the carpet. His comment didn’t bother her, he guesses.

It doesn’t take long to clear up the floor, but then Jemma insists they take everything off the bed, instructing him bossily (although not unpleasantly). Then she manhandles him into the bathroom, flipping the faucet up and pushing her hands under. He acts on instinct, letting his arms go around her and his hands join hers under the faucet. She smiles at him through the mirror, leans against him. He buries his face into the crook of her neck as she soaps up his fingers lazily.

The mirrors’ image bites like acid. They look like a perfect fit. This blows away every intimate thing he’s ever done, including the kissing before and whatever more may come later, just _this_ , just this image. Fitz has never felt a resounding sureness like this, not with test answers or laws of nature. He feels himself slipping, spiraling into realization that they’re approaching a searing calamity, but suddenly she’s twisting in his arms; her wet hands go to his collar and pull him to her, lips bruising lips, and he leaves blurred-edge handprints on her hips to help her brace herself on the lip of the sink.

She is intensely expressive. Every touch wins him a sigh, moan or murmur, and everything is catalogued in his head for later exploitation. He kisses down lips, jaw, neck, and when he reaches the sweet spot where throat meets shoulder he bites down inquisitively. She gasps and her fingernails sink into his neck, and if there was any conscious thought left in his head, that dashed it away.

She squeaks as he grips her thighs and lifts her up, carrying her back into the other room and slowly laying her on the bed. She’s laughing now.

“What?”

“You just went from rough to gentle almost instantly,” she says, smiling up at him.

“Well I’m not going to throw you around, am I?” he says.

She doesn’t answer, just pulls on his collar again until the meet.

They are sweeter now, slowed down. She seems inexplicably charmed by him, meeting every kiss with a sort of loosely-bridled enthusiasm he doesn’t dare question. Suddenly there’s a fumbling at his back, and he realizes idly that she is trying to pull his shirt over his head.  He leans up to help her, and before he realizes it she has him on his back again, shirtless this time.

“You are efficient,” he breathes. She wiggles in response, preening.

“Unzip me,” she whispers, leaning down over him so he can reach her back. He scrambles to find purchase on the little scrap of metal, pulling down slowly not to snag her in it. When he’s finished he balls his hands into fists so she can’t see them shaking.

She doesn’t step out of it; instead she rucks it up over her head, revealing thighs and hips and stomach until he’s completely self-conscious.

“Don’t stare,” she says.

“You’re...astounding,” he says, and he wish he didn’t sound so dumb but he’s completely surrendered to thoughtlessness for the moment.

“Me? No, I’m not, you think, no I’m not _you are_ ,” she splutters.

He doesn’t answer, just pulls her down to meet his lips.

For a relatively young person, Fitz has had a lot of moments that have changed everything, which is why he doesn’t believe in the permanence of anything. His father dying, he is brothers leaving, quitting Scotland for good, everything that happened between Grant and his family. All of those world-changing things had been negative. Jemma tips the scales ever so nimbly towards the light; and it isn’t sleeping with her that’s going to do it, just the fact that they met.

Jemma makes quick work of his trousers and her bra. She goes for her panties but he stops her, absolutely transfixed by her breasts. He is regarding them with such intense admiration that she laughs, takes his hands and gives him permission.

This might be Fitz’s first religious experience.

Somehow while he is distracted she gets rid of his pants and her panties, _how_ he has no idea, but again, she’s very efficient and possibly an enchantress, so he chooses not to question it.

Suddenly it’s very real - they are both bare in front of each other, and Fitz realizes that this _matters_. She is bestowing a great privilege, and so is he, in a sense. He tries to ignore the instinct in the back of his mind that says they are a speeding train, rushing towards something irreversible. He doesn’t want to stop. He fumbles for the box of condoms and she laughs as he tears it open with his teeth. She takes it from him and rolls it over his aching length before looking him dead in the eyes.

“Ready?” she murmurs.

He catches her lips briefly and nods.

She sinks down slowly, and suddenly her face is freckled with stars. All he feels is warmth and wetness and bloodrush. Her eyes go unfocused.

“Okay?” he manages to choke out.

Her mouth quirks as she nods. His lips find hers parted, swollen and desperate.

Honestly, the wave is growing in him already, and he does everything in his power to hold it back so she can catch up. She is relentless in the kindest way possible. He focuses on kissing the softness below her ear and his fingerprints driving slow pressure on her nipples. He is rewarded with fine sounds escaping from her throat like vapor, ribboning like silk towards him at every right move.

Soon it’s too much.

“Tell me when you’re close,” she pants.

“We’re past close,” he wheezes, trying to hold on.

“Oh!” she says, and sticks a hand between her legs to help herself along. They rocket into it unsteadily; him first, although he can feel her contractions moments behind. She catches his lip between her teeth and anchors him as he falls back down to earth.

She kisses _one two three_ a constellation on his chest. Her affection is blazing, even coming down off a high. She rolls off of him and he takes care of the condom, tying it off and tossing it in the trash by the bed as she settles under the covers.

“Draw me something?” She asks sleepily.

He looks over at her in surprise. “Okay,” he says easily, jumping up out of the bed, bare naked and unashamed, to root through his pants pocket for a pen. Then he grabs the pad of hotel paper left on the bedside table and climbs back under the covers with his tools. He can feel her pleasure-blown eyes watching him lazily as he sets to work. 

After a while he tears off the page and hands it to her. It’s a pen etch of a girl with big blazing eyes, standing tall in protection of her bleeding heart, which is dripping on a pedestal behind her. She isn’t wounded; she’s made precise incisions and took care to remove it and guard it.

Jemma looks at it for a long time, and the same mix of tenderness and doubt from earlier that evening comes over her face. Finally she looks up at him, but he only lets their eyes meet for a second before he looks down deliberately with a smile and gets to work again.

The next one is of the same girl and her heart, now off to the right, while a shy-looking boy with wide eyes peeks in from the edge of the paper. There is a love-heart, small and black, floating above his head, followed by an exclamation point. Fitz tears it off and hands it to Jemma. He only waits a second to see her blooming smile before starting on the third.

The girl now has noticed the boy, as he is offering her his bleeding heart, asking wordlessly, hole in chest, for her to keep it safe along with hers.

Fitz tears it off and gives it to her. He watches as her eyes search it attentively, treating it with the same thoroughness as she did with his body.

“What happens next?” she asks quietly.

“That’s up to her.”

She hesitates for a moment, then takes the pad of paper and pen from him gently, scribbling something down. She offers it to him quickly.

_I can’t draw for shit, but…_

He laughs loudly. He looks over to see her intently writing again, biting her lip.

After a long, noiseless moment, she finishes and gives him the fruit of her labor.

_She takes his heart as the precious gift it is. She places it for safekeeping with her own, and the two hearts become well-acquainted. The boy and the girl leave the hearts under lock and key, with the hope that they will take care of each other, while they go on a proper date._

He wants to flip over and bury his face in the pillows, try and digest her sweetness in a way that didn’t make him look like a doofus. It is too much. He smiles instead.

He lets out a shaky breath and sinks down into the covers, lying on his side to face her.

“What now?” he asks.

Her face is pained, eyes tight and chin quivering and perfect mouth frowning. She seems to be thinking very hard, and every moment of silence brings back all the thoughts he had been shoving down all night: this ends. Just like everything else, this ends.

She moves forward, inching closer to him to place a hand on his cheek.

“Do you want to get some sleep?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says.

“I know,” she says. “But it might be easier if we sleep on it.”

And with that, he knows she’s been thinking of the same problems he has. Her voice sounds strange when she says it, though, and something in him wants to protest. It’s the only time the whole night he’s felt deceived.

He’s powerless against her, though, so he just nods and gathers her tightly in his arms. She clutches back, and he wonders which vices are going to be more difficult to escape when she leaves him. He presses tense kisses to her face until he unwillingly drifts away.

He dreams of a girl performing surgery in the middle of a forest fire.

When he wakes, he is alone and unsurprised. But there is a scrap of hotel paper in his outstretched palm, a string of numbers written recklessly and signed with an x.

Maybe it doesn’t have to end just yet. 


End file.
